


Out With The Old, In With The New

by Whynotitsfun



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: A Christmas Carol, Angst, Charloe because I can, Dickens Is Rolling Over In His Grave, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, yes-- this is corny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:33:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2834936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whynotitsfun/pseuds/Whynotitsfun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story in two parts... Part one is an absolutely shameless ripoff of A Christmas Carol, revolution style. Part Two is a love story that is possible because of the events of Part one. All quotes at the beginning of each chapter have been taken from Illusions, by Richard Bach, FYI. </p><p>This story is just in time for Christmas, however none of the events actually take place during the winter holiday season...</p><p>Canon until the middle of episode 1 x 10, and from there, things go haywire for General Monroe. As most of you are already familiar with A Christmas Carol, I'll let you figure the rest out. </p><p>WARNING!! Parts of the first chapters imply MCD and Suicide, but they are not a part of the actual plot, nor do they take place during the events of this story-- they are in another time and place and only serve to get a point across...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Visit You Didn't Expect

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I owe a lot of people and stories reviews, and for that I am very sorry. The holidays are always crazy in the bar/restaurant industry and I've been burning the candle at both ends, so to speak. The fact that this was written at all tells you how much it was stuck in my head. 
> 
> I also owe a chapter for Careful What You Wish For, but I'll admit that the creation of this story has altered they way I wish to end that story, so I need to rework somethings. This would have been delayed entirely, but it doesn't work after Christmas...   
> PS.. Sorry for any errors and/or tense disagreements. Part two was originally written in present tense, but I changed most of it. I was in a rush to get this up before tomorrow since I have to work...

**_If you will practice being fictional for a while,_ **

**_you will understand that fictional characters are sometimes_ **

**_more real than people with bodies and heartbeats._ **

 

                “Are you sure you need another drink, Bass?”

                The voice came out of nowhere. General Sebastian Monroe almost dropped the decanter he held at the sound of it. He’d been alone in his quarters for quite some time and had neither heard nor seen the door open. He turned around to see Ben Matheson standing in front of the window.

                “How did you get in here?” Monroe asked, setting the decanter down slowly.

                Immediately, he felt stupid for speaking. For one, there was no way to get into the room unseen. The windows were locked—protocol required they be checked twice a day, and he’d checked them himself when he’d retreated for the evening. For another, he’d just spoken to a dead man.

                “I’m dreaming,” he murmured, unwilling to even consider other possibilities.

                Ben shook his head. “Oh, you’re awake alright.”

                “Bullshit. Dead people don’t talk—or materialize in my quarters, for that matter,” he scoffed. It was a dream. He could say whatever he wanted, couldn’t he?

                Ben just smiled. “Then make me go away,” he said passively.

                Monroe closed his eyes and willed the image away. When he opened then again, not only was Ben still there, he was standing closer, just a few feet away. Monroe hadn’t even heard him move.

                “Told you,” the apparition grinned.

                “So what, you’re haunting me now?” Monroe finally said, more annoyed than afraid.

                “ _I’m_ not,” was all he said. He went back to the window and looked out. “You’ve reached an interesting place in your life, Bass. You’re standing at a crossroads—only you’re too crazy to see it.

                Strangely accepting of this strange dream or haunting (or whatever it was), Monroe sat back down on the loveseat with his whiskey. “For a ghost, you’re a little out of the loop. I’m finally about to win it all.”

                Ben laughed hard at this. “For a president, you’re a little stupid.”

                The intrusion was bad enough. The mockery was too much. Instantly enraged, Monroe jumped up and advanced on the intruder. “You’re good. You had me going there for a second. You look like Ben, and you sound like him, but you’re not him.”

                Monroe pulled out a pistol and raised it to his chest. “Ben Matheson is dead, and there’s no such thing as ghosts. Who hired you? The rebels? Georgia? One of my own?”

                Suddenly there was nothing there. “I’m over here, Bass.”

                Monroe turned to see Ben sitting on the arm of the loveseat, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Why were you aiming that thing at the window?”

                Monroe dropped the gun, barely registering as it clattered on the hardwood floor. “How-how did you do that?”

                “It’s easy when you don’t have a body,” he said. He didn’t move exactly, but somehow Ben was standing nose to nose with him. “You’ve got this one night to figure it out. Tomorrow, it’s go time and there will be no more second chances. You need to listen to what they tell you and really think about what you want out of life.”

                “What are you talking about?”

                Ben smiled again, but he was already starting to fade. “You’ll see. For once in your life, shut up and listen…”

                Monroe was left alone in his quarters. He went back over to the decanter sitting on the side table and poured himself another drink with unsteady hands. He sank back down on the loveseat and tried to steady himself. Just a few minutes ago, he’d been flying high. He had Rachel Matheson, he had her children. Sure, Miles was loose in the city, but there was no way he was going to get in alone.

                The amplifier would be ready within days and he’d finally have power. He’d finally be able to show Georgia what he was made of. After ten years of constant bickering back and forth over the borders, he’d finally take Virginia. But, he wouldn’t stop there. Oh no. He’d take the continent. He’d put the pieces of the broken country back together like one giant geographical jigsaw puzzle and he’d go down in history as the man that reunited the US.

                Only, it would be under his rule. No more petty politicians to fuck it up. There’d be no red tape and useless debates and filibusters. He’d take it all, Texas too. _Those Rangers thought they were big and bad? Let’s see them stand up to a few Blackhawks_.

                Now, he was left with a feeling of foreboding and dread. He knew it was insane, but he’d seen it with his own eyes. Or had he? The more Monroe thought about it, the more he cemented the idea in his mind that he was dreaming. The dead didn’t come back. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He was sure he’d wake up soon and have a good laugh at himself…

 


	2. A Blast From The Past

**Perspective: Use It or Lose It. If you’ve turned to this page,**

**you’re forgetting that what’s going on around you is not reality.**

**Think about that. Remember where you came from,**

**where you’re going and why you created**

**this mess you got yourself into in the first place**

 

                Monroe woke up to the chiming of the grandfather clock on the other side of the room. Bleary eyed, he blinked a few times and looked at it, even as he counted the chimes in his head. _Midnight…_

                “Well it’s about time.”

                Monroe turned in the loveseat to see his father sitting on the other side, his ankle casually resting on his knee, his arm resting on the back of the couch. It was a favored position he’d often sat in when he’d had to give his son a talking to over the years.

                Images flashed across Monroe’s mind of several of these… When he and Miles had been caught smoking pot in high school; when they’d gotten drunk the summer between junior and senior years and “borrowed” the Monroe family station wagon; when he’d told his parents he was joining the Marines, and so on.

                “Still dreaming…” he murmured, and yet even as the words left his mouth, he wasn’t so sure.

                “You’re not asleep—but you might as well be. What have you done to yourself, son?” William Monroe said tiredly.

                “I—” Monroe had been about to do what he’d always done when his father had sat him down like this years ago. He’d been about to make a few sorry excuses and then beg for forgiveness. He stopped himself. He wasn’t sixteen any longer. “I did what I had to do survive. You wouldn’t know anything about that. _You_ didn’t.” He spat those words at his father, the resentment he felt towards his father for dying showing through.

                William Monroe shook his head sadly. “You’ve forgotten where you come from. You’ve forgotten who you are.”

                “I haven’t forgotten anything. I’m not your son anymore,” Monroe replied bitterly.

                His father reached out and touched his forehead with two fingers. Monroe instantly felt a wave of vertigo wash over him. He tried to grip the armrest to steady himself, but found that it was no longer there. He stood up, but everything was spinning around him.

                When the world stopped moving again, he was standing in the living room in the home he grew up in. Around him his sisters pranced around the room. They were little girls again.

                “Bassie’s got a girlfriend! Bassie’s got a girlfriend!” they chanted, sing-songing the taunt.

                He saw eighteen year-old Bass chasing them both around the living room as they squealed in mock-terror. The elder of his two sisters must have only been about eight or nine; the younger only five. “Someone needs to teach the two of you to mind your manners and your own business,” young Bass says as he snatches is youngest sister up, tickling her mercilessly.

                Cynthia Monroe watches from her vantage point in the corner as he tortures little Angie, pointing and giggling. “Oh, you’re next, Cindy-Lou,” he tells her as he drops his youngest sister on the couch and makes a grab for her.

                She is faster than her sister and tries to get away, but Bass is athletic and determined. Before she knows it she’s been thrown over his shoulder and he’s spinning her around in circles. “Sebastian Thomas Monroe, you put your sister down before you make her sick!” His mother admonishes as she steps into the room.

                Cindy does not handle being dizzy very well, especially now with in inner ear infection. This is something her older brother knows. Laughing, he drops her next to Angie on the couch. Already, she’s a little pale. “Sorry, Cindy-Lou,” he tells her as he good-naturedly yanks on one of her braids.

                Monroe watched the scene before him, his brow furrowed as he blinked back the moisture that came to his eyes. He’d forgotten all about this, but as he watched it the memory came back to him. He’d just gotten off the phone with a girl from school that had gotten his number from Emma Bennett, of all people.

                In an attempt to diffuse the growing feelings between them, she’d been trying to set him up with a friend of hers—Jenny Murphy, if his memory served. That summer, his only concerns in life had been Emma, getting fucked up with Miles and fixing up the old jalopy that he and Miles had gone in together and bought.

                The scene shifted and his mother and sisters faded away. “Where did they go?” he asked, desperate to see them still.

                “Wait,” his father told him.

                The front door opened behind them, and Monroe watched as a slightly older version of himself poked his head through the door. He was dressed in fatigues and was carrying his duffle. “Anybody home?” he said with a smile as he came all the way in and deliberately let the door slam behind him.

                “Sebastian Thomas Monroe, don’t you dare slam my front door!” his mother said as she came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. The room was suddenly permeated with the smell of vanilla. His mother must have been baking.

                “Hi, Mom,” Marine Bass said as he gave her a hug.

                Gail Monroe squeezed her son tight. “Home in one piece, thank God,” she said.

                His father came down the hall and joined them, shaking his hand before hugging him as well. “You look good, Son.” He looked around. “Where’s your shadow?” he asked with a laugh.

                “He’ll be along Christmas Eve. He wanted to spend a few days with Ben in Chicago first,” Marine Bass explained. “Where’s the girls?” he then asked, clearly disappointed in not seeing them.

                “We didn’t expect you until later. They’re out shopping. Ever since Cindy got her license, she is always on the go,” Gail explains.

                The scene shifts, and suddenly it’s Christmas Eve. He hears the sound of laughter from the other room. Monroe leaves the ghost of his father behind and goes into the dining room. He’s there, so is Miles. The rest of his family is with them. It dawns on him that it must be only a few years before he lost them. This was the last Christmas he’d made it home before the accident.

                Oblivious to their audience, the Monroes and Miles joked and laughed and continued to be one big family. Miles had always been a welcome fixture in these scenes. He and Ben only grew closer those last few years before the world ended—and Monroe knew that had only been because of his wanting to be closer to Rachel.

                The tears fell freely now. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to see Ghost-William standing there. “You didn’t get leave on Christmas the next few years.”

                “I did. I just didn’t come home,” he replied bitterly. “I spent one in Monte Carlo with a hot blonde I’d met off base. The one after? I went to Cabo and spent my entire leave banging a flight attendant I’d met on the way. I’d planned on surprising you all by coming home, but I got side tracked.”

                The memories of his own selfishness made him feel sick. “I don’t want to see anymore,” he said, turning away and drifting back to the living room.

                “Just one more,” Ghost-William said.

                The room seemed to fade out and then faded back in again. It was filled with people. Neighbors and friends; people Monroe had known his whole life stood around the living room, somber in their dark clothes. It took him a second to realize what he was watching.

                He saw himself, standing in the corner of the room. The expression this younger version of himself wore was blank, like he was no more in the room than the General he’d one day become was there now. The repass was solemn as his neighbors approached and offered their condolences.

                Monroe’s own memories of the event were faded with time and had never been very clear to begin with. He’d gotten through the day on a handful of Xanax that he’d gotten from Rachel and a bottle of Jim Beam from his father’s liquor cabinet. It had been the only way he’d managed to face the reality of burying them.

                “Why are you forcing this on me?” he asked.

                His father squeezed his shoulder, something he’d always done when his son needed support before his death. “If you don’t have a past, you’ll never have a future, Bass.”

                Monroe took one last look around him, seeing Miles standing there—in reality he’d actually been holding him up. The mix of drugs and alcohol had left him unsteady on his feet. Rachel and Ben had been there too, quietly working in the background to take care of the sad gathering, because he’d been too much of a mess to plan a damn thing.

                Their children had been left with Rachel’s parents in Chicago. Little Danny had been too ill to make the trip and at four years old, Charlie would just have been in the way. It was strange all these years later do see them all there with him, a united front of Mathesons tasked with holding Bass Monroe together when he’d been so hell bent on falling apart.

                The room faded away and Monroe found himself standing in his quarters once more, completely alone and shaken. He poured another drink, almost spilling it as he raised the glass to his lips. If this was a dream, he needed to wake up. He hadn’t thought about his family in years; those memories had been too painful to remain so close to the surface.

                He sat down, wiping his eyes. Memories of them gave rise to ones about other people. His wife and child coming to tragic early ends just as his own family had. _If this is a dream, why now? It’s been so long since I’ve thought of any of them…_


	3. Take A Good Look Around You

**The truth you speak has no past and no future.**

**It is, and that’s all it needs to be.**

 

                Monroe reached for the decanter, having decided that he’d only survive this strange night drunk. His hand hovered over the crystal vessel when he heard a knock on the door. He did his best to compose himself, running a hand through his hair and again wiping his yes with the back of his hand. He could always claim fall allergies if anyone had the nerve to ask. “Come!” he barked.

                The door opened to reveal some random soldier. Normally only ranking members of the militia and his own security detail had access to his private quarters. Monroe knew them all well. This young man however, was not one of them. “Well?”

                “Sir,” the young man smiled warmly. “I’m here to take you where you need to go.”

                “Excuse me?” Monroe asked. “It’s the middle of the night, corporal.” He just now noticed the rank on his uniform.

                “But you must come, even so,” the soldier insisted.

                Monroe cocked his head at him. There was something off about him. His uniform for one; it wasn’t the current version his militia wore. It was older and very worn. It suddenly hit him; it was one of the incarnations they’d used in the first year or two after the Republic was officially formed. He didn’t know where he could have even gotten it.

                “Who are you?”

                The soldier gestured for him to rise. “I’m what comes next,” he said cryptically.

                Monroe was compelled to follow, despite every bone in his body telling him it was a very bad idea. Still, his curiosity won out. _It’s only a dream. What’s the worst that could happen?_ He asked himself as he got off the loveseat, slammed the last of his drink and set the glass down on the end table before grabbing his dress jacket and following the corporal out the door.

                As he followed the young man, Monroe tried to ignore the fact that he had a decent buzz. He’d had dreams where he’d been drinking, but never had he dreamt that he was actually drunk before now. _That’s because you’re awake,_ a tiny voice inside his head said. He did his best to tell that tiny (and logical) voice to stuff it.

                They soon found themselves across town at the power station. They were in the cells Monroe had ordered built below. Strangely, no one reacted when the soldier opened the door to the cell containing Danny and Charlotte Matheson and waited for Monroe to enter in front of him.

                “What are you doing?” Danny asked his sister.

                She was working at something behind her. “If I can get a screw loose we might be able to use it,” she whispered to him. She stopped for a minute and inspected her fingers. They were bloody with her efforts.

                “And do what? We’re locked in here.”

                She shrugged. “I don’t know. We have to do something. We can’t wait for Miles—even if he can get in, he’ll need our help getting back out.”

                Monroe watched the exchange in wonder. They didn’t even notice he was in the room. He couldn’t help but notice how remarkable Rachel Matheson’s daughter had become. She was no longer the little imp he remembered her being as a small child.

                Not even a day ago he watched her stand up to Strausser’s gun, telling them all to shoot her instead of her brother. That bravery had intrigued him. She stood there, beautiful and defiant—so much courage from someone so young. He’d admired her and couldn’t help but be a little turned on by it. In fact, it had been all he could do to keep his hands off of her afterwards.

                Even with all of the things he’d done, he still couldn’t bring himself so low as to try to tame and damage a spirit like hers. There were some people that couldn’t be seduced and he’d known from the start that she was one of them. To have her, he’d have to take her by force, and he wasn’t that big of a bastard.

                “Most people would be cowering in defeat, but not this one,” the soldier remarked. “She’s got so much life in her—she’s more like Miles than her own father.”

                He led the way for Monroe to follow. As they walked, he made a mental note to have the cell searched when he woke up. It was only a dream, but you couldn’t be too careful. If anyone was capable of helping her uncle, it would be this beautiful young warrior.

                Monroe stopped just outside the power plant, standing in the shadows of one of the Blackhawks he’d had brought here. He got dizzy for a second. He stood there, in place and closed his eyes for it to pass. When he opened them again, the soldier was still there, but they were no longer in the same place.

                He looked around. “Where are we?”

                “Just outside of what used to be Champagne, Illinois. I thought you’d like to see how life is on the other side of the Republic,” the young man said.

                Monroe wandered around, his “guide” at his side. Everywhere he looked, people appeared run down, as if their lives were dragging on too long. He noticed a commotion across the street. Curious, he approached. One of his men, a lieutenant was in an altercation with a civilian.

                The man was on the ground, and the lieutenant pulled his side arm out. “Please, don’t shoot. I was just trying to protect my daughter,” the man cowered as he begged.

                “You know the penalty for striking an officer, and you know the penalty for harboring a fire arm,” the lieutenant sneered.

                “We just use it to hunt, that’s all. The collection units passed through twice this year. Record of our payment had been lost. We paid our taxes twice—we need the meat to survive,” the man stammered.

                Without another word, the lieutenant pulled the trigger, shooting the man in the head. “And now you’ll pay three times,” he said with a grin. He stepped over the man and opened a door nearby. Inside, a wail could be heard. Monroe followed, feeling sick as he did so.

                “Stand down, Lieutenant,” he commanded as he entered to see the cruel officer grabbing a pretty little thing out from the closet where she was hiding. The girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen or so. The man just went about his business, dragging her into the back of the house, his intent quite clear.

                “He can’t hear you any more than the Mathesons could. You’re here to see, not to interfere,” the corporal said from behind him.

                Monroe swallowed back the bile. “Does this..?”

                The corporal nodded. “It happens all the time. Taxes are collected two, sometimes even three or four times a year. The Militia rarely takes its fair share and if your auditors were honest, you’d know that they don’t send even a fraction of what they take to Philly. They keep almost all of it for their garrisons and underreport what the people give.”

                “And then we raise taxes again,” Monroe finished for him. It made sense why nothing ever seemed to be coming in from the further ends of the Republic. It also explained why the Rebels had more allies here. “And the rapes?”

                “Par for the course in some areas, a little less common in others.”

                The soldier turned and left. When Monroe followed him, they were back in Philly once more. As they walked, images of what he’d just witnessed haunted him. If he was willing to be honest with himself, he’d admit that although he didn’t exactly know what was going on with his militia, he wasn’t completely oblivious either. The law of the land gave the local garrisons carte blanche when it came to enforcing the laws, collecting taxes and rooting out subversion. As long as they did that, he’d happily looked the other way.

After a few blocks they stopped in front of an elegant house. This one, Monroe recognized. It was the Neville’s home. He followed the corporal inside. There he was—Miles was standing there, having just shoved Tom and Julia Neville in a closet.

                He braced it up and turned to leave, walking straight through Monroe. “What the hell?”

                “Observe only,” the solider reminded him.

                He stood for several minutes and heard Julia and Tom gripe at each other. “I told you that you should have made your move,” she snapped from the other side of the closet. “If Miles Matheson escapes, he’ll lose what’s left of his sanity. He’ll kill everyone before you have a chance to do it.”

                “Julia, I have everything under control,” Tom’s voice says coldly.

                “No you don’t, Tom. Monroe’s already psychotic. What are you going to do when—“

                “I know what I’m doing. If he’s really that far gone, no one will be willing to follow him much longer anyway. And I can’t do anything unless Baker is out of the way.”

                Monroe narrowed his eyes as he listened. “Why that traitorous son of a bitch,” he said as he stalked over to the closet.

                The soldier pulled him back. “You can’t interfere.” He led Monroe back onto the street.

                “I guess I should thank you for the heads up,” Monroe said as he turned back to where the soldier was standing, however he found that the corporal had  vanished and he was alone on the streets of Philly now.

 


	4. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title stolen from the title of a TLC song-- and from various other sources that TLC probably stole it from.

**Every person, all the events in your life,**

**are there because you have drawn them there.**

**What you choose to do with them is up to you.**

                Before he could even call out to the missing soldier, a bright flash of light had him shielding his face. It was intense that he squinted his eyes shut, and halfway expected to be blind when he reopened them once more. When it disappeared, he lowered his arms and took a look around.

                The city around him was nothing more than rubble and smoldering ashes. Smoke filled the air. He could feel it burning his throat as if it was real. He could taste it in his mouth. _This is too real for a dream,_ he thought to himself. Dream or not, he could feel the heat from the fires that still burned around him.

                No longer the middle of the night, it was now late afternoon. The shadows of the sun through the smoke on the now dead city cast eerie shadows around him. “What happened?” he said aloud. The sound of his own voice fell flat around him as if the smoke buffered it from reverberating. The effect was disturbing, as if he’d walked into some horror movie.

                “This is what you bring to the world,” a voice told him from somewhere in the shadows.

                “Who are you? Show yourself,” he called out.

                The voice ignored his command. “Aren’t you proud of yourself? Of how powerful you are? Just think, you’ve got the power to make an entire city burn,” the unseen man taunted.

                There was something about that voice. It was all too familiar to him, and yet foreign all the same. He knew he should be able to identify it, but couldn’t quite place it.

                “Is this real?” he asked. Monroe hadn’t heard a bomb go off, but it sure as hell looked—and smelt and felt like one had. And, there was the strange light.

                “It will be, and it will be all your fault.”

                “How?”

                The voice seemed closer now, as if its owner was silently stalking him through the shadows. “Your own selfish arrogance and lust for more power.”

                Monroe turned to keep facing the direction he thought the voice was coming from. It seemed like every time he spoke, the unseen visitor moved somewhere else. While his own fell flat, this one seemed to echo all around him, making it almost impossible for him to be exactly sure of its origin.

                “Stop being so vague. If I’m going to cause this, then I need to know how hit happens so I can stop it.”

                A cruel laugh came from his left. “And if I tell you how, you’ll know where to find this type of power. You’ll run to claim it as fast as you can.”

                Monroe whipped in that direction. That this new “guide” of sorts was in his blind spot did little to help his growing unease. “You don’t know that; you don’t know me.”

                Again, that cruel and cold laugh. “Oh I do. I know you better than anyone. You’re selfish and stupid and it will make you destroy everything.”

                Disgust dripped from the voice. The thickness of it swept over him and the desolate landscape that had once been Monroe’s prized Philly. He hated it. “Who the hell are you? People don’t talk to me like this,” he said with a deadly calm. Figment of his imagination or not, he was done being spoken to as if he was a naughty child with his hand caught in the cooking jar.

                “I’ll talk to you anyway I want,” came the taunting response.

                “Big words coming from someone too scared to show his face.”

                Suddenly, a shadow emerged, distinguishing itself from the others, as its owner slowly came forward. “You asked for it,” he said.

                Monroe could hear his footsteps echoing on the charred pavement as he walked through the smoke and haze. The air between them was thick and time seemed to stretch on as he approached. Monroe became almost hypnotized by the sound of those steps and their steady cadence.

                Everything cleared just a little and he stood there staring into his own face. _What the hell?_ It was him, but it wasn’t. This _him_ was a few years older. His face was no longer clean shaven. At one point it had been trimmed into a neat goatee, but was now overgrown by several days of scruff. His hair was longer, no longer tamed and slicked back, but the curls sticking out this way and that. He looked rough, like in those early years of the blackout where he and Miles had roamed the countryside with their camp before forming the militia.

                Gone was the uniform of his station. In its place were dusty jeans, a dirty t shirt under a faded flannel shirt and a leather jacket. In short, the image before him was filthy and looked like it had been through hell. “What’s wrong Bass? Don’t you like what you see?” His piercing blue eyes struck him through and through. “Don’t you like what we’ve become?”

                 


	5. The Future Is A Scary Place Indeed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I'd keep Monroe's confrontation with himself that short, did you?

**There is no such thing as a problem without**

**A gift for you in its hands.**

**You seek problems because you need their gifts.**

                It took Monroe several minutes to recover from the sight of this strange, walking and talking reflection of himself. “What are you? Did you cause all of this to happen?” He’d forgotten for the moment that he’d convinced himself it was all a dream. “All of the people before…”

                This filthy version of him grinned. “Yeah, it was me. We always did have a flair for the dramatic. I needed to get your attention, so I decided to go all Charles Dickens on your ass.”

                Monroe swallowed as he let it sink in. “What happened to you?”

                “ _We_ happened. We lost it all because we were so stupid. We tried to have everything, and in the end, we were left with nothing.”

                “What went wrong?” He asked. Surely, if this was really where he was going to end up, there must have been something that had caused it, and that meant a way to stop it.

                “ _We_ did,” he repeated.

                “What do you mean _we?_ How? Did Miles push me into this?” Monroe was getting frustrated. He was so sick of all of this weird cryptic bullshit. He saw a pained flash in the blue eyes that bore into him at the mention of Miles. “It was him, wasn’t it?”

                His older image just shook his head, his expression had fallen and he looked almost disappointed. “You’re still too blind to see it. It’s always someone else’s fault. It couldn’t possibly be you because you’re so sold on your own bullshit.”

                This future Monroe reached out and smacked him on the side of the head. “Wake up, asshole. This wasn’t Miles or Rachel—it wasn’t anyone’s fault but ours. You want to find a scapegoat? Start looking in the mirror, because that’s where you’ll find it.”

                “You’re telling me I destroyed my own city?” Monroe bristled at this strange caricature of himself as he spoke.

                The older Monroe only shrugged. “May as well have been us. We didn’t push the button, so to speak, but it’s our fault it happened.”

                “You’ve got a choice,” he continued, “you make the wrong one, and our future becomes _your_ future.”

                Monroe looked around at the destruction around him once more. “If I die here, then how come you look so much older?”

                “I’m not _that_ much older,” he pouted, adding what Monroe was sure was the word _dick_ under his breath. “We don’t die here, dumbass. It would have been better if we had, but no—we weren’t in the city when it burned.”

                “Where was I?”

                “ _We_ were in the plains, busy losing everything when it happened. And then, someone bigger and badder than we ever were swept in. We followed them all, trying to make up for the past, but they hated us anyway.”

                “Who?”

                “Miles, Rachel and Charlie… they only kept us around because we were useful—a tool that could kill and nothing more.” He began to advance on Monroe.

                Out of instinct, the general retreated backwards, almost tripping over a pile of rubble as he went. He matched his future self, step by step. He couldn’t speak, he just stared into those sad blue eyes.

                “We might have actually earned forgiveness in the end, but we had to have plans to get all of this bullshit back. We are nothing if not predictable. During the war and afterwards, we buried them all one by one.

                And every time we lose someone, it’ll be our fault. We are the reason there is a war in the first place. If we weren’t so goddamned arrogant and stupid, the others never would have come. They need you and Georgia gone to take over, you see.”

                “Georgia?” Monroe squeaked.

                “That’s right. Atlanta is gone too because of us. Two cities, both fallout zones because we had to go looking for trouble, looking for power where none should have been. Everyone we’ve ever loved will die because of us. You’ll bury her last.”

                “Bury who?”

                “Charlie. She’ll die in our arms and we will shatter. And the whole time she’s bleeding out and our heart is breaking, she’ll tell us how much she still blames us for destroying her family.

                “You think you’ve lost a lot now? That’s nothing in comparison to hearing the woman you love tell you with her dying breath that she hates you.”

                “Me and the Matheson girl?” The idea was ludicrous to him.

                Future Monroe nodded in response. “Granted, she’ll never let us touch her. We’re too much of a monster for that. Trust me, you will fall in love with her though. She’s the best person you’ve ever met, you just don’t see it yet. Admit it though-- you already want her. You saw her staring down that gun this morning and you wanted her, right then and there.

                “She’s just a kid,” Monroe protested.

                “You can’t lie to me,” future Monroe said. “I’ve seen and thought and felt everything you have. She’s an amazing young woman—too good for us, and we lose her. We’ll bury her hundreds of miles from what’s left of her family.”

                Monroe swallowed. That meant only one thing. “And Miles?”

                “Dead. Rachel too.”

                As much as Monroe resented her from hiding the power all these years, he didn’t’ exactly wish her dead either. Granted, he’d do it if he had to. “So what happens to me?”

                “Do you really want to know?”

                Monroe nodded. He had to know. He watched as his future-self took off his jacket; he watched in confusion as the flannel shirt came next. Future Monroe stood there in that dirty tee shirt and held his arms out, turning them to reveal the cause of his demise.

                The long gashes ran up his wrists, and as Monroe stared in horror, they began to bleed. “This is where we end up,” Future Monroe said, his eyes welling up and his voice shaking with emotion. “Take a good look, Bass. You know where our head must have been when we did this…”

                A memory of a night long ago flashed through Monroe’s mind. The desperation he’d felt when he’d realized that he had nothing left came back and hit him. He remembered the acute pain of knowing that he was alone, as if it was happening all over again. He remembered how, once he’d recovered from that night how he’d never wanted to feel that way again.

                “We thought we could just shut up everything inside after Shelly died. And, maybe it worked for a while. Killing is so much easier than feeling, isn’t it? But we were wrong. You can’t stop being human just so you don’t have to grieve. And when it all hits us the next time around, it’s too much.”

                The bleeding stopped out of nowhere, the blood disappearing, leaving the ugly, open gashes behind as evidence. “You thought that night at the cemetery was bad? It’s nothing in comparison to what we feel the night we lay her in the ground. All those years ago, we had to get drunk to find the courage to pull the trigger. We won’t need anything this day. We’ll cover her with dirt with our bare hands and then we bleed to death on top of her grave.”

                Monroe recoiled away from him. He closed his eyes and backed up further.  “This is just a dream. Wake up.” He squinted his eyes shut as tight as he could and prayed for the terrifying images of his so-called future to disappear.  When he opened him again, he was back in his bedroom, but his visitor was still there.

                His shirt and jacket were back on, the evidence of his weakness once more concealed from view. “Not a dream, Bass,” he insisted.

                “Why are you here?” The question came out as a croak.

                “I died and then I woke up again. The things that are keeping the power off brought me back and they won’t let me go.”

                Monroe sank down on his bed and held his head in his hands. This was too much. He could hear the raw pain in the voice of this supposed future self and it cut him to the core. “What do you mean?”

                “We caused all of it. The war against the so-called Patriots was only the beginning. We won that war, but we lost the rest. The government, the old one, it caused the blackout. Little microscopic robots—nanotechnology is what they called it.” Future-Monroe must have caught the blank look of confusion on his face when he lifted his head. “You don’t have to understand it. Just take my word for it.”

                “What does that have to do with me?” Monroe asked, still not getting it.

                “Because of what we do in the months to come, Rachel Matheson tries to turn the power on for everyone. We walk the Patriots right in the front door and they drop the bombs. Rachel and Aaron Pittman tried to turn the power back off again, but something went wrong. They woke up. They’re everywhere, even now.” He sat down next to Monroe and waited to see if it was sinking in before continuing. “ _That_ is the war we lose. The first thing they saw when they woke up was what was in _our_ head, and they decided that humans were just too dangerous to be left alone. If it wasn’t for what we did, it wouldn’t have happened. If it wasn’t for our fucked up mind, they might have left us all alone.

                “We killed them all and then the Nano took over the world. It’s all our fault. The world is going to end and the only one that can stop it from happening is you.”

                Monroe thought about this for a few seconds. “If that’s true, then why bring you here to warn me?”

                “Because they became like us. They started out trying to do the right thing, but they are like children—they become what they see. They loved the power they held and the began to crave more. They are destroying themselves. The personality split and _those_ are the ones that are keeping me around.

                “You have a choice to make. You can keep going as you are or you can stop it all. You can still save us—save yourself. You do not want to be where I’ve been.”

                Monroe took a deep breath. He looked into his own eyes, saw the plea there. He finally let himself believe that everything he’d been told just might be true. “How? How do I stop it?”

                “You need to let go, Bass.”                                                                  

                “Let them go? They came here to kill me,” he argued. Stopping what was essentially an apocalypse (if this was real and _if_ his future self wasn’t lying or crazy) was one thing. Letting someone loose to kill him was something else entirely.

                Future-Monroe shook his head. “No. _You_ need to let go. Walk away, while you still can. This can all be fixed—the Republic can be fixed. You’re too caught up in it to see it, but it’s broken—you’re broken. It can be what it was meant to from the start. The Republic can be a good thing, but not with you in charge. We never should have been in charge—we can’t handle it.”

                “So, I’m just supposed to walk away?” He was indignant. He’d worked so hard to get where he was and the idea of just handing it off to someone else just didn’t sit right with him.

                “Why not? You’re going to lose it all either way. You can bow out like a man and watch it flourish, or you can watch it die because you’re too stupid to see that you’re strangling it. It’s entirely up to you.” Future-Monroe reached out and touched his stubborn former self on the forehead, sending a shockwave through him. “Take a look and then sleep on it,” he said.

 

 


	6. The Aftermath of Dreams

**You are never given a wish without being given**

**the power to make it true. You may have to work for it, however.**

 

                Monroe woke up just before dawn with what he was fairly sure was the worst headache in the history of man-kind. Images swirled around in his brain. Pieces of a past (future?) that he’d never had filled his mind and made him feel sick.

                He got up and cleaned himself up, trying like crazy to banish the dream from his mind. He was almost to the door when he caught something out of the corner of his good eye. A leather jacket was carelessly draped across the back of a chair.

                Cocking his head to the side, he stared at it for a moment before reaching out to touch the jacket. The moment he did, everything flooded back to him, hitting him like a freight train. He saw things—names, dates and the so on. He felt things that had never happened and yet they were so poignant that it was like he’d lived them himself.

                He’d woken up that morning with one set of plans, but that leather jacket changed everything. He stopped by his office and sat down to write a letter that would change everything before moving on. Monroe left Independence Hall, his security detail surrounding him as always. Before the sun had fully risen he was at the power plant.

                He was supposed to meet Captain Jeremy Baker for a full report, but before he could do that, he had something else to attend to. He sent his guards ahead to the makeshift office that had been created for him on the second floor and headed down to the cells in the sub-basement.

                He found the one he was looking for. “Open the door,” he ordered the two men charged with keeping the cell’s occupants inside.

                They complied, stepping aside to reveal Charlie and Danny Matheson. He stared at them for several minutes, watching as the cringed away from him. “Bring them,” he said quietly before turning to walk away.

                The guards did as they were told and dragged the youngest Mathesons out and down the corridor, following their general. They had a sneaking suspicion that they know where this is headed. One or both of these prisoners would be dying this morning.

                They were once more in the room where Rachel was working on the amplifier. She’d just gotten started for the day and Will Strausser was watching over her. Deep down he was hoping she would make a wrong move. He didn’t care about the power this strange invention of hers promised. He wanted her blood, her children’s blood.

                “Rachel,” Monroe acknowledged with a nod.

                Rachel’s eyes grew wide when she saw her children being led in. “What’s going on?” She asked in a panic. “I’ve been doing what you’ve asked.”

                “Give me the pendant,” Monroe ordered her.

                With trembling fingers, Rachel complied. After all, Monroe had her children and there was little else she could do. Monroe dangled it in front of his face.

                “So much happens, all because I have this in my hands.” He watches it sway in front of him, unable to take his eyes off of it. Without bothering to look away from this promise of power, he drew his sidearm. He saw Strausser’s grin out of the corner of his right eye. Suddenly, his arm swung to the right, and he pulled the trigger.

                Sergeant Will Strausser fell to the ground, a bullet lodged in his forehead before he even realized that none of the Mathesons were the intended target. The guards jumped, startled. In truth, neither had liked Strausser and they even feared him a little.

                Monroe dropped the pendant on the ground and crushed it beneath his boot. He ignored the outburst that came from Rachel as she watched him destroy it. Without a word he emptied his clip into the amplifier. When it was done, the invention was in pieces.

                “Let them all go,” he told the guards. “They are to be protected.”

                “I don’t understand,” Rachel said warily.

                Monroe ignored her. The door to the room opened up and two more men dragged Tom Neville in. “Hello, Tom.”

                “Sir? What’s going on?” The panic in Neville’s voice almost brought a smile to Monroe’s face—almost. He kept the mask in place. He knew he had to see it all through. There was no turning back.

                “Major Tom Neville, you are under arrest for the murder of Ben Matheson. I’d have you tried for your crime, but we both know you’ll escape and will eventually plan a coup. That would interfere with my plans, so I can’t let that happen.” Without another word, Monroe held his hand out for one of his guard’s weapons. The man handed it over and everyone watched as Neville’s body jerked with the force of the bullets entering his flesh.

                Monroe handed the weapon back and turned to face the younger two Mathesons. “I’m sorry about your dad. I never meant for him to die.”     

                No expecting a response, he turned and gave a new set of instructions to the four guards. “Please escort Rachel and her children to Independence Hall. They are to be fed, cleaned up and treated as guests until General Matheson arrives to collect them. Tell no one of what happened here—not yet.”

                Several hours later, he still waited with Jeremy Baker and his security detail. He knew Miles would be there, all he had to do was wait. They were already in place—after all, Monroe now knew exactly when and where Miles would arrive. They heard an explosion from somewhere outside the facility. “He’s here,” was all Monroe said.

                Soon after, they came face to face with Miles. “Stand down,” he ordered Jeremy.

                “Sir?” The captain was confused.

                Monroe unsheathed his swords and tossed them aside. His sidearm followed, leaving him unarmed. “You heard me, Captain. Stand down.”

                Baker nodded to the guards and they lowered their weapons. Only Miles kept his raised. Monroe slowly advanced on the man that he once called brother for so many years. When he stopped the barrel of Miles’ gun is only inches away from his chest. “What are you doing?” Miles asked, confused.

                “I’m not going to kill you, Miles. And I don’t think you’re going to kill me. You couldn’t before, and you won’t now. I get it now,” Monroe told him.

                “What do you want?” His body language screamed his distrust.

                Monroe sighed. “We’re brothers, Miles. We look out for each other, even when the other one screws up. It’s what we do.” He held his arms out. “And I really screwed up this time, didn’t I?”

                Miles started to lower his gun when Monroe reached into his uniform jacket. Convinced it was a trick, he jabbed the end of the gun at his former best friend and watched as he pulled out a letter.

                “I’m sorry,” Monroe told him as his eyes filled. “I’m sorry about Ben. I’m sorry about that rebel family. I’m—I’m just so sorry,” he told him.

                When Miles took the letter, He took a few steps back. “I’m sorry, and I quit,” he said before turning and walking away. No one moved; Miles, Jeremy Baker and his own guards were all frozen in place. “Your family is waiting for you at Independence Hall,” he called over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

                Miles dropped his gun without even really being conscious of his actions. He unfolded the letter and scanned its contents. With shaking hands, he lowered it and just stared down the corridor after Monroe, but he was already gone.

                “What does it say?” Jeremy asked, having finally found his voice.

                “It says that I’ve been reinstated as commanding general over the Militia and that you and I both hold joint control over the entire Republic.” Miles is incredulous. “It says that he’s resigned. He quite literally, just quit.” He locked eyes with Jeremy. There were more details and they would discuss them later, in private. There was information about a man that needed to be dealt with, as well as a pressing need to join forces with Georgia, but that would be for later.

                “What?” Jeremy asked.

                “Bass just quit.” he handed the letter to Jeremy so he could see for himself. 


	7. So, You Thought You Could Hide?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two

**Your friends will know you better in the first minute you meet**

**than your acquaintances will know you in a thousand years.**

_Three Months later, Kent Island, Maryland—on the Chesapeake Bay…_

                 Bass Monroe sat on a lumpy old couch in a small house just off the bay. He held a book in his hands, but he really wasn’t reading. His gaze kept drifting to the fire in the hearth. He just finished his simple dinner of fish (that he’d caught himself, thank you very much) and was settling down for the evening with a glass of whiskey.

                His only neighbors were an elderly couple. He’d lucked out in that they were willing to conduct his business for him and were also willing to allow him to remain anonymous. Word had caught on like wildfire that the President-General had simply walked away, and there were enough people that wanted him dead just out of the principal of the thing that he couldn’t risk exposure.

                In exchange for their silence and assistance, Bass kept his neighbors well stocked with fresh fish from the bay and did odd jobs that the husband was too old to do these days. He chopped their firewood, milked their cows (they’d even agreed to let him keep some of the milk), and did repairs to their home— whatever they needed.

                They rarely spoke to him beyond business. They weren’t his friends—they were just in need of a strong back on occasion and were willing to overlook who he was to get it. And so, they helped sell his catches in town for enough profit for him to get by. His needs were simple, really; a set of clothes when he needed them, a bottle of whiskey every so often (he’d been cutting back a bit here and there), and books.

                With nothing else to do, he read—a lot. His life was boring and simple-- and very lonely, but he was at peace for the first time in two decades. The fight was over and he could finally just be. There was something to be said for that.

                He knew it was just a matter of time before someone figured out where he was holed up, and when that happened, he knew he’d be shot for his many crimes, or even better—dragged to Philly to face the past. Rather than experience that old paranoia, he’d come to accept it. One day he will answer for what he’s done and when that day comes, he will allow it. It will finally be over.

                He knew he couldn’t take any of it back—all the human suffering he caused and the lives he destroyed couldn’t be undone. All he could do was live one day at a time with the knowledge that he’d saved the family he’d thrown away. That was the best that could have come from that last day in Philly.

                He knew that by now, Philly and Atlanta would have been erased from the map. Instead, a treaty was in place between the Northeastern Republic (His surname had, of course been removed) and the Georgia Federation. That treaty would keep an unseen menace down south, held at bay indefinitely and also allowed for better trade between both nations.

                Miles and Jeremy immediately invested the time (and the genius of Rachel Matheson and Aaron Pittman) into opening factories to process goods from the south, just like the days before the Civil War. In exchange for these services and for much needed coal from the Republic territories in Pennsylvania and West Virginia, Georgia now sent food north so that the people no longer starve.

                There was even talk now of improving relations with Texas on the horizon. Most of this had been Jeremy Baker’s doing. He had always believed in the Republic and now he’d gotten the free reign he needed to really make something of it. He was no longer held back by his lunatic of a former boss.

                Miles was in control of the Militia, but he’d learned from its tarnished past. Now, it functioned as it should have all along. Those that had been abusing their ranks had been punished and most of the oppressive laws that given them the opportunity to carry out such abuses had been overturned. The militia now served to protect the civilian population, just like he and Miles had once envisioned years ago. Gone were immediate executions. Criminals now faced formal charges and were tried by juries of their peers.  

                Bass had to admit it—Jeremy Baker worked wonders and he worked them fast. Just last week, he’d announced plans to the entire nation regarding a forming a parliament or congress of sorts. It was still just in its formative stages, but it brought a lot of promise.

                The Rebels would never have the United States back, but now they were living in a Republic they were willing to accept. That’s all they’d wanted, really; a free state where the people have the freedom to thrive. Without Monroe there to oppress them, the people will be able to do just that.

Bass was just dozing off, having been lulled by a full belly, the warmth of the fire and the alcohol in his veins. The door opened and he jerked awake. Instincts died hard, after all. He looked up and stared into the cold, blue eyes of Charlotte Matheson.

                He knew it was time. In some ways, he was almost ready for it. The last chapter of his sorry existence finally would be over. She was holding her crossbow and he waited for her to let the bolt fly. Her finger was on the trigger, and it was obvious that had been her intent the second she walked through the door.

                It was his nod of acceptance that stayed her hand. At first she thought it was a ruse to distract her, but as she stared into his eyes, she realized that he was just tired—and ready.

“You’d let me shoot you?” Charlie asked.

Bass nodded and smiled weakly at her. “It’s okay. I deserve it. If not you, it’ll be someone else. I’d much rather it be you.”

                Her jaw dropped. She couldn’t see what was running through his mind; glimpses of a future that never was coursed through him. These were just flashes of some other Bass Monroe’s memories, but he felt them just the same. If there ever was a person he’d wronged in any life time, she was the most innocent of the bunch.

_He knew many things that he didn’t have the right to know. He knew about the son that lived in Puesta Del Sol, just as he knew that he can never meet him. He understood this time that Miles did what he had to do regarding Emma Bennett’s son._

_He knew that he couldn’t help him and that this young man will only bring out the monster inside and drag him back into the madness. Maybe Emma will find him someday and he can be saved. Maybe not—it wasn’t his right or his choice._

                He knew what it felt like to care for this girl. He’d never even really talked to her or spent any time with her, but it was there all the same. The truth was, even if he had, it wouldn’t matter. They were different people then they were in that other lifetime.

                Somehow, he’d been left with enough of a residual of those unmade memories that seeing her now brought it back. It was those flashes that helped him make the decision to walk away three months prior, after all. This girl had a hand in his having saved the world and in the process having saved himself, and she didn’t even know it.

She read that there was something lurking under the surface—some understanding that she didn’t quite get. She couldn’t process it. “Why? Why did you give it all up?” Maybe that was why she’d really come here; why she’d spent these last month tracking him down. Deep down she just wanted to understand.

                Bass took a deep breath. _How much should I tell her? Some of it? All of it? Nothing at all?_ What he experienced that night was nothing less than insane, but it was real all the same. For one, he still had that leather jacket and there are a few mementos inside its pockets that shouldn’t have been there.

                “Because it was the right thing to do,” he finally told her. “I saw what I was and where I was headed and I didn’t want to do it anymore. It was time to let go.”

Charlie let the crossbow fall to the floor. She was almost mesmerized by the calm clarity he now showed. She sat down on the armchair in the corner of his tiny living room and watched him. “Why are you hiding _here_?”

                “Why not? Here’s as good a place as any. It’s only a matter of time, regardless, and I like the bay.” He didn’t know what else to tell her. He’d just wandered for weeks, compelled to head in this direction. This was the place that felt right, so this was the place he’d stayed. That she’d been tracking him only proved his point. There were likely others too. The Republic had no active warrants, but there were thousands with reason enough to see him dead.

                They just sat there, each waiting in the silence for the other to do something. Finally, Bass got up and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with another glass and the bottle of whiskey he opened earlier. He refilled his own glass before pouring her a drink.

                “If you’re not going to kill me, you can at least drink with me _.”_

                Charlie accepted it from him, watching him over the rim of her glass as she took a sip. “Aren’t you lonely living out here all alone?” she asked. She’d done her homework and knows that other than the elderly couple that lives nearby, he saw no one. There were no occasional ventures in town for supplies or to find a whore, or whatever.

                “Very,” Bass confessed, “but that’s okay. I was for a long time before this, anyway. At least now I can’t hurt anyone because of it.”

                Charlie was struck by the sadness in his reply. She realized then that this was probably the most human contact he’d had for a long time. “But you were surrounded by so many people before,” she countered.

He finished his drink and set the glass aside. He was tired and didn’t feel like having another. He knew he didn’t need the memories it always brought to the surface anyway—both the real ones and the ones that would never be. “I was still alone.”

                They didn’t speak again. Charlie finished her whiskey and handed the glass back to him before collecting her crossbow. She pointed it at him again, but still didn’t take the shot. Instead, she left. Neither of them knew what she would do with her knowledge of his location. Instinct dictated that he should go on the run, but he was simply too worn out to do so. Charlie knew she should either kill him or send someone else to do it for her, but she inexplicably wasn’t sure if she still wanted to see his blood spilled.


	8. The Birth of Something New

**In order to live free and happily, you must sacrifice boredom.**

**It is not always an easy sacrifice.**

                Charlie returned exactly one month later. Just as before, she appeared in his living room, uninvited and unannounced. Her crossbow was again aimed at Bass’ chest, grim determination on her face as she sought her revenge for her father’s death. Once more that calm acceptance stopped her. With a resigned sigh, she lowered her weapon and took a seat. They shared a drink in complete silence and then she left.

                Another month passed and again, Charlie was suddenly standing there. For the third time she barged into his home. However, this time she didn’t begin her visit with a threat to his life. Instead, she dropped a backpack on the coffee table in front of him. Bass offered her a confused look before grabbing the backpack and peering inside to find it filled with books. They were just paperbacks, most of them novels and the like. She must have noticed that he’d been reading both times she’d come before.

                She only stayed for an hour or so, silently accepting his offer for a drink before disappearing once more. Bass watched her retreat, still confused. She’d traveled all this way to bring him books, of all things. He chuckled to himself of the absurdity of it all as he dug through the backpack to pick a book to read before going to bed.

                The next month, Bass anticipated her arrival—looked forward to it, even and she didn’t disappoint. He was just taking a fish out of the oven when she walked inside. Soon it would be too hot to cook indoors, and he’d have to set up a spit outside.

                Charlie’s arrival was earlier than it had been the previous three months. He didn’t speak, just nodded in greeting as he turned to dig out a second place setting for his small table. He wasn’t sure if she’d accept the silent invitation, but he figured that since she’d brought him something the last time, the very least he could do was offer.

                Charlie set her backpack on the counter and took her seat at his table. As he joined her, it struck Bass that this was the first time that anyone had sat in that chair. It was a rather bleak and lonely realization, and somehow her presence made his tiny kitchen seem so much more alive.

                They ate in silence and then share a drink. The first several times she’d come, the silence was awkward for him, but this time, it was almost comforting. When she got up to leave, Charlie paused to dig into her backpack. She brought out an old tin canister and set it on the counter before slinging it back over her shoulder.

                Bass looked at her questioningly as he reached out to take her offering. He opened the tin to reveal the aromatic brown grains. Inhaling deeply, he let a smile spread across his features. Coffee… This must have been one of the more pleasant results from the treaty with Texas. Now the republic would have access to some of the imports coming north out of Mexico. The demand for commodities like this would be high, and the cost was very dear. 

                With a curt nod of her head, Charlie turned to leave. Feeling more flustered than he should, Bass followed her, opening the door for her and proving for once and for all that chivalry wasn’t quite dead (although it was indefinitely on life support).

                She turned to look at him one last time before taking her leave, pausing to look up at him and capturing his gaze. She’d left her crossbow by the front door when she’d entered and he bent now to pick it up and hand it to her, his eyes never leaving hers.

                They continued to watch one another. Charlie stared at him as if she was trying to figure him out. It was in this moment of weakness that Bass bent and lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was gentle and he made no move to deepen it—it was just the whisper soft movement of his lips on hers.    

                Within moments he ended it and took a step back, halfway expecting her to either smack him or shoot him for the presumption. Bass held his breath while he waited for her to react. He almost sighed in relief when Charlie touched her fingers to her lips and backed up onto his porch, her eyes wide in surprise, but not anger.

                He watched her retreat into the darkness before closing the door. He still had dishes to wash after their shared meal. If he stopped to smell the coffee before going to bed, well no body was there to notice and ridicule him for it at any rate.  

                By the time the next month came around, Bass was not convinced she would come. It had been five months since she first showed up, eight since he walked away from Philly with nothing more than some civilian clothes he’d swiped on his way out of town and a beat up, old leather jacket. He knew he shouldn’t have kissed her the last time. He didn’t exactly regret it, but he was also worried he’d scared off the closest thing he had to a friend these days.

                He was outside, turning a wild boar on a spit. He’d happened to come across it in the woods early that morning. It had been ages since he’d had anything resembling pork—he’d been living off of mostly fish and the occasional deer since he created this idyllic exile for himself.

                He’d already cut off portions and taken them to his neighbors. They’d agreed to let him use their smokehouse in exchange for half of the meat. He had to admit that the thought of real bacon had him excited. In the morning, he would bring what was left of the rest to them as well. It would spoil before he could eat all of it himself at any rate.

He had found an old picnic table behind an abandoned home on the other side of his little cove a few weeks back. He’d dragged it back and sanded it down. Ever since the weather had grown hotter, he started eating his meals outside.

                Most evenings, he sat out here, sometimes laying on top of the table and staring at the stars until he got tired enough to retire for the night. It was usually too hot for him inside for several hours after dark at any rate and he enjoyed the peace of it. The shore was only a few hundred yards from his back door and on calm nights, he could usually hear it as he relaxed.

                When the moon was fuller, he went down to the shore and walked around his little cove, enjoying the smell and feel of it. On those nights, Bass walked until he was exhausted and then would find a good spot just to watch the moonlight reflect off of the water. 

                Charlie appeared behind him, leaning up against one of the columns on his back porch. He didn’t even realize how much his face lit up when he saw her. Charlie, of course couldn’t miss it. To her, it was almost blinding

                She took in the sight of him. He’d long since stopped shaving daily. He kept his beard trimmed and occasionally removed the rest of the scruff—from what she could, it had been a few days since he’d bothered with it. His shirt was post blackout and the sleeves were casually rolled up—the effect was almost too enticing. He no longer resembled the general he once was; instead he appeared as a rustic fisherman or something of the like.

                “Hello, Charlie,” he finally said as he turns back to the pig. It’s the first words he’d spoken to her since that first night she showed up.

                “Hello,” she replied, almost sounding nervous.

                They ate dinner together and this time, they actually talked to each other. Their conversation was light; she told him about the state of the Republic and he described the plot of the last book he’d read—one of the ones she’d brought him, in fact. Afterwards, he didn’t immediately offer her a drink. Instead, he casually mentioned how nice the night was and asked her to take a walk by the bay.

                They continued to talk about random things, just small talk really as they walked along. Charlie kept her hands locked behind the small of her back; Bass kept his shoved in his pockets. If anyone had been watching them, they may have pointed out the ridiculous image they presented. It was as if they were both trying so very hard to not touch one another.

                When it is time for her to go, Charlie kissed him this time. Bass balled his hands up at his sides to stop himself from grabbing her and let her take control. Her mouth was firm and warm on his, and she made no move to take things further (and he didn’t expect her too). After a brief moment or two, it was over and she was gone once more.

                Bass cleaned up the dishes and puts the rest of the boar away. Later, he stretched out on the picnic table with a contented sigh. After this fifth visit, he was pretty sure that his feelings for her were his own now—not just residuals from those strange memories from another time. He knew better than to hope that it would go any further, but he still held on to his anticipation of her next visit. After all, she did come back after he’d kissed her and this time she initiated it.

                It was only two weeks when Charlie returned. He hadn’t been expecting her yet. She always arrived on the ninth of the month, like clockwork. It was the ninth of February when she’d first showed up and she’d been showing up on the exact same day ever since.  

                After greeting her, Bass went inside to return with a second place setting for her. Finding that his little boat had sprung a leak after a recent storm, he hadn’t been able to go fishing. Instead, he’d dug up some clams for dinner, and even managed to find a few oysters as well. Both were more plentiful now that commercial fishing in the area was almost non-existent and the population was next to nothing in this part of the bay. As they ate, Bass did his best to not think about the fact that oysters were once considered an aphrodisiac.  

                This time, after another walk on the beach, Charlie stayed for a second glass of whiskey and hesitated, as if she was trying to come up with an excuse to stay a bit longer. When she got up to leave, Bass took a risk and pulled her into his arms. When she didn’t pull away, he kissed her, delving in this time.

                Charlie responded eagerly, allowing him to taste her, and giving as good as she got. Bass fought to maintain control. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep his hands firmly on her waist. No matter how good it felt when she wrapped her arms around his neck, he was determined not to push his luck and try to take things further.

                When they finally part, chests heaving and breath ragged, he lets her go. He can’t help but smile at the fact that she was a little unsteady on her feet as she grabbed her things. Sure, it _could_ have been the whiskey, but he liked to think that it had something to do with him. As he watched her leave, he found his heart lighter than it had been in years.

                Once again, Bass found himself lying on the picnic table, staring up at the sky. He didn’t see the stars this time, but was replaying the previous hours in his mind. This was the first time that Charlie hadn’t brought her crossbow with her at all, not even for protection on her journey to his home—he didn’t know how he felt about that.

                That one fact told him one thing at least—she must be staying somewhere close, perhaps even on the island itself. That she’d returned so soon almost confirmed it. Granted, there was more traffic on the bay now. As the Republic became less of a military machine and more of an actual country, people were able to get around better.

                Most of the bridges spanning the bay were either completely gone or in such disrepair that they were considered unusable, but there were farriers available to carry travelers across—indeed, that was how he’d gotten to Kent Island in the first place.

                Up until now, he’d assumed that she’d been living in Philly, or maybe even Boston. The latter had become a secondary capital of sorts, and according to the papers, it was where General Miles Matheson now lived. If either city was where she called home, she must not have been back since her last visit, however. There was no way to travel that far and yet return to him so quickly.

                Wherever she’d stayed since her last visit, she must have been comfortable and familiar enough with it to leave her precious weapon behind. That gave him hope that he’d see her sooner, rather than later. He now had to admit that he was completely sunk when it came to Charlie Matheson, and it wasn’t just because she was the only one that bothered spending any time with him.

                Tonight they’d spent the entire evening talking. He asked her about the Republic and about how Miles and the rest of her family were doing—that he could do so without the usual pain those topics inflicted upon him was evidence in his mind that he was finally starting to heal from wounds that were really over a decade in the making.

                He’s told he stories of his and Miles’ misbegotten youth in Jasper and she’s told him ones from hers about growing up in Sylvania Estates. It had been amazing just to talk to her, watching as she laughed at some of his and her uncle’s boyhood antics or how her eyes became misty when she talked about Ben and Maggie. There’d been no resentment there; she’d shared her memories gladly and he’d been warmed by them.

As he drifted off under the stars to the sound of the bay lapping at the shoreline, his thoughts stayed focus on Charlie. At first, he’d only looked forward to her visits because he was lonely. Even though their association had begun with what was essentially an assassination attempt, he’d welcomed her company just to break the monotony of his life. He knew he had no right to ask for it, but now he wanted something more.              


	9. An Experience to Be Shared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, gratuitous sex chapter. Don't judge me.

**Your conscience is the measure of the honesty**

**of your selfishness. Listen to it carefully.**

 

                Bass got his wish to see her again only a week later. It was much earlier in the day than she’d come before. He was outside, putting a second coat of varnish on an old rocking chair he’d salvaged. He’d repaired it and sanded it down and was now making it look brand new—an new hobby he’d picked up to fill the lonely hours. He wasn’t sure if he was going to keep it or sell it, but all in all he thought he’d done a damn good job with the thing at either rate.

                “Hey,” he said when he sensed her presence, trying to remain calm and appear casual, even though is heart was now pounding in his chest.

                “Hey yourself,” Charlie replied as she set her backpack down. “I brought you a few things,” she added.

                She took out a few new books and a deck of cards. She also had a pair of jeans for him. She’d noticed that she’d only seen him wear the one pair and that they were getting worn out. He could come up with pants easily enough, but they’d be post blackout. The Levis he prefers were expensive and almost impossible to find in decent condition.

                She’d also noticed the numbers on the leather patch on the back of his worn ones (she may have been looking at something else at the time) and happened to come across a pair with the same measurement by accident at a market she’d visited. She’d bought them on a whim.

                “Thank you,” he acknowledged, feeling more flustered than ever.

                They talked about random topics while he worked. When he was finished, he headed inside to get cleaned up. By the time he emerged from the house, she’d already cleaned and started to cook the fish he’d caught earlier that morning. When Bass went to take over, she shooed him off, insisting that she would cook for him this time.

                After dinner, there was no whiskey. Bass grabbed her hand and lead her inside the house. The day had been overcast and a little on the cool side for early July and it wasn’t so bad inside for once. Charlie followed willingly, her fingers entwined in his.

                 What began as a kiss would soon become so much more. They barely had the back door closed, when he turned in his kitchen to face her. He cupped her face with both hands and claimed her mouth with his own.

                She opened for him and he swept his tongue in her mouth, exploring every crevice and re-familiarizing himself with her from the last time. His hands slid down her neck and to her shoulders. Charlie splayed hers on his chest, and was pulling at his shirt when he ran his fingers up and down her arms and then down to her waist. He found the hem of her tank top and pulled up on it. Their mouths parted as he pulled the garment over her head.

                Eyes locked, she mirrored his actions, yanking his shirt over his head impatiently. With a chuckle, he finished the job for her and the pulled her into his embrace.  With a flick of his fingers, her bra was undone.

                Charlie pulled away just enough to remove it. More than anything, Bass wanted to feel the intimacy of her skin against his own as he found her lips again. Charlie was so soft and smooth in all the places he was hard and rough, and she seemed to fit perfectly against him. The only sounds that could be heard were those of the bay through the open window and the sounds of their increasingly ragged breathing.

                Bass’s arm was clamped up her back, his hand at her nape, holding her tightly against him while he held the other at her hip, fingers massaging her through her pants. Charlie had one arm thrown around his neck, the other seeking the hard muscles of his chest. She stood on her toes as they melted into one another, tongues dancing.  

                They were both panting and Bass was almost dizzy with the feel of her. She gasped in surprise when he shifted, bending to pick her up and carry her through the house and down the hall to his bedroom.

                He set her gently on the bed and joined her there. Hands exploring, he ran his rough palm over the silky smoothness of her skin, watching her face as she practically purred under his touch. He slid a hand down her leg, sitting up to find her boot. Deft fingers made quick work of the laces and it went thumping to the floor. Moments later, its mate followed.

                He removed his own and then stretched back out beside her. Bass kissed her again, sighing into her mouth as his fingers sought one breast. He touched her gently, almost reverently, cupping the orb and testing its weight in his hand. When she moaned in the back of her throat, he pulled back and lowered his head to its twin. He flicked the tightening bud of her nipple with his tongue, smiling as she reacted by arching her back and pressing her breasts closer to him.

                When their mouths met again, he slid his hand down further to her belly, tracing light circles on it with his fingertips. Charlie’s hands were tangled in his messy curls. She unwound them and grabs him by the shoulders, guiding him to move over her. He reached down in between them and worked on undoing the snap and zipper of her jeans.

                Charlie lifted her hips so he could pull them down. When he went about it too slowly for her tastes, she finished the job, kicking them down and freeing herself. Her hands flew to his belt, but she fumbled. Smiling against her lips, he took over. Using her hands and then her feet, she pushed his jeans down. She immediately took him in hand, gasping at the size of him.

                Bass closed his eyes and groaned. The feel of her fingers wrapped around his hardness was almost more than he can bear. He settled himself between her spread thighs and grinded against her. She was so wet and the action lubricated him with her heat. His tip found her entrance and he paused before he went further.

                He waited for her to look up at him. Eyes locked he pushed forward, not stopping until he was buried deep within her. By the time he felt the barrier that indicated her inexperience, it had been too late for him to stop. Bass froze within her as her body reacted, tensing at this new intrusion.

                “Charlie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” He still had images of her from another world. In that world, she was disillusioned and took what she could whenever she could get it. He’d naturally assumed she wasn’t so innocent in this time and place. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

                Charlie was already relaxing and the pain had subsided almost as soon as it began. She reached up and caressed his cheek, telling him she was okay, that this was okay. Bass kissed her tenderly overwhelmed by what she’d just given him. Had he known, he’d have gone slower, but there was no going back now.

                 He waited for her to get used to him, kissing her into a frenzy and reigniting her arousal. His hands explored until she was panting and whimpering beneath him. When Bass felt Charlie’s body soften and yield, he knew she was ready.

                When he finally began to move, he started slowly, keeping his motions gentle. Her breath hitched every time he glided back inside. Despite the easy pace, he was having a hard time keeping himself in check. It had been a long time for him (longer than he’d ever gone, even after burying his wife) and she was tight and hot and so wet.

                Charlie instinctively raised her hips to meet him thrust for thrust as she began to build up inside. This was so much more than the times she’d let some boy bring her to completion with is fingers, or when she’d done it herself (she wasn’t _that_ inexperienced). Before long she was writhing against him, desperate for release.

                He picked up the pace a little and she started to come undone. Bass watched her while she climaxed, her head thrown back, a moan escaping from her parted lips. It was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen and proved to be his undoing. Before he realized it was even happening, he exploded inside her, his release intense and taking him by surprise.

                Later, he held her, still dazed that he, of all people had been her first. If she’d held onto her virginity for this long, it must have been highly valued—as it should be. That she’s shared her first time with him meant something. Suddenly, it hit him that he didn’t think he could let her go again. It was one thing have unrequited feelings for her. After what they’d just shared, he felt that everything had changed.

                “Please stay,” he said when he felt her slowly start to pull away, both physically and otherwise.

                Charlie sat up and looked at him. She could see his feelings for her, they were written all over his face. “I have to go,” is all she replied as she went about collecting her pants and boots.

                Bass was helpless to do more than sit up and sadly watch her get dressed and walk out of the room. He heard her pausing in the kitchen—most likely to retrieve her shirt and bra. The door opened a few moments later and closed once more, telling him that she’d gone.          

                He knew that there had to have been more to what they’d shared than her just “getting it over with.”  For one, Charlie was far too appealing to have had a problem in that department. If she’d been simply sick of her virginity, there were scads of much more suitable candidates for the job.

                Still, he didn’t understand why she’d so willingly shared his bed, only to flee afterwards. Was she really so horrified by what they’d done? If so, why bother in the first place? She had to have known when he’d led her inside where this night had been headed. Once he’d gotten her to his bedroom, he hadn’t wasted any time, but he’d gone slow enough for her to change her mind—hadn’t he?

                Resisting the urge to jump up and go after her, he stared up at the ceiling. Hopefully, she’d come back tomorrow, or next week and he could demand an explanation (or apologize if needs be) then. As he fell asleep, he couldn’t help the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he’d just made a big mistake.

                 Charlie didn’t come back the next day or the next week. A part of him was angry at first, but he let it go. She’d given him far more than he could ever deserve and he knew it. He had no right to her friendship, let alone her sharing herself with him, even for one night. Still, he wished that it didn’t hurt so damn much.

 


	10. Were You Surprised?

**Don’t be dismayed at good-byes. A farewell is**

**necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again,**

**after moments or lifetime, is certain for those who are friends.**

 

                Bass went through the rest of the summer alone. He eventually stopped setting a second plate out and looking behind him to see if she was standing there and did his best to move on. He missed her and he was deeply hurt by her continued absence. How ironic for the womanizer to feel used and tossed aside by the virgin. There was a time where Miles would have laughed at him for it.

                But, despite the pain she’d caused when she’d fled, he still held on to the memory of that night. To a man such as him, it is about a good of a memory as he could expect to have, and he knew that nights like that would be few and far between from now on.

                The weather turned as summer slowly gave way to fall, and once more Bass found himself sitting on the couch in front of the fire. He was reading one of the books she’d left for him the last time she came back. He’d read it several times already, but he’d liked it well enough, so he’d decided to read it again. It was just a stupid crime novel, but it was a good read at any rate.

                The door opened and he looked up to see Charlie standing there, crossbow in hand. His heart sank. She stood there as she did that first time and he wondered what he’d done to deserve death this time—or maybe it had all been an illusion to him and that hatred had never left.

                She surprised him by setting her crossbow down by the door. Her backpack was discarded next and he watched in a daze as she crossed the room and sat down next to him on the couch. Bass set the book down on the coffee table and just took in the sight of her for several minutes before reaching out to brush a lock of hair behind her ear.

                “Now, I can stay,” she murmured as she leaned forward to kiss him.

                Hours later they were in bed, slick with sweat and heart rates slowly returning to normal. Her head rested on his chest and his arms are around her. All he could think was that she’s going to stay. He held on to this one fact, still not quite believing it.

                “Where did you go?” he asked her.

                Charlie would always be Charlie, and so she answered his question with another. “Why did you want me to stay?”

                Bass hesitated for a second. He took a deep breath to steady himself before confessing, “I love you,” It’s a risk, to be sure, but after spending the months without her, he was ready to risk it all to keep her.

                Charlie smiled at the proclamation and just basked in it. “I went to take care of a few things—and then I went to tell Miles where I’ll be,” she told him a short while later.

                “He knows?”

                “He’s known since the first time I tracked you down. He’s known I’ve been to see you since then. He’s asked after you,” she confessed. “At first he was worried that I’d killed you. He still cares, you know.”

                Bass didn’t respond at first. He was too choked up by the fact that anyone gives a damn at all, let alone Miles and Charlie. “What did you take care of?” he asked, changing the subject before he made an ass out of himself.

                “The changeover. The Republic is now a democratic one. Jeremy Baker on the election, of course. Miles is retiring, though. After the election, I went to get his house ready. He’s leaving Boston for good.”

                “Oh? Where’s he going to go?” Bass asked, his curiosity piqued.

                “Just on the other side of the cove,” she told him. “Danny is moving with him.”

                He was surprised to say the least. “He’s moving here?”

                Charlie placed a kiss on his chest. “I guess he likes the bay too,” she said with a smile as she snuggled in closer.

                Bass laughed, and then he froze for a second. “What about our mom?” He didn’t relish Rachel Matheson being a neighbor, especially if Charlie is going to stay with him. A part of him is still skeptical about that part, and he knows that if anything were to take Charlie away, it’d be her.

                “She’s staying in Philly for the time being. She’s a bit pissed at Miles right now?”

                “What did he do this time?”

                “He’s having trouble deciding between her and Nora,” she explained with a chuckle.

                Bass laughed—and laughed. He couldn’t remember the last time he found something so hilarious. He could picture both women, stubborn and strong with Miles sitting confused between them. When Charlie lifted her head to look at him, he sobered instantly.

                “Are you really going to stay this time?” he asked as he toyed with a lock of her hair, trying his best to hide his own insecurity. Charlie nodded her response. “Why?”

                She smiled this. “Because despite all odds, I guess I love you, too.”

                Bass lifted Charlie over him and kissed her. Soon they were lost and joined again. It was sweeter, slower than their reunion. It was something that he’d never experienced before, not even their first time together could compare. Afterwards, they fell asleep still joined, both sated and content.

                


	11. Doppelgangers Revisited

**The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief**

**in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls**

**the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.**

                A few weeks after Charlie’s return, Bass woke up to the sound of a storm coming in off the bay. The temperature had dropped significantly, and if the preview is of any indication, this storm was about to put on one hell of a show. He got up as carefully and quietly as he could, as to not wake Charlie.

                Before he left the room, he stoked the fire in the heart and took one last look at her sleeping form. He could scarcely believe that only a year had passed. In fact, now that he thought of it, it was exactly one year to the day since that night everything changed. He considered this as he went from room to room, shutting windows to keep the storm outside.

                He was headed back to bed when he saw himself standing in the living room, leather jacket and all (later, he will find his own “borrowed” jacket has disappeared). “You did good,” said the Bass that never was. “You turned your life around—even got the girl in the end. I’m impressed.”

                “I guess I did.” Bass replied. Something about this second encounter with himself was off, and it took him a second to realize what it was. “Wait a minute. If you’re real and were telling me the truth, why are you still here? I thought I changed things.”

                “Oh, you changed them all right. From what I know, it just takes a while for the rest of it to catch up.” Possible-Future Bass had a wicked grin on his face. “So tell me, is she as amazing as I always thought she’d be.”  

                “Really? You stopped by to ask me to swap stories with you? I don’t think so.” Bass bites back a laugh. That would be something he’d do, even now.

                “I’m just fucking with you,” he said. “She is though, isn’t she?”

                “She’s perfect in every way,” Bass allowed. “And you’re right; she’s the best person I know.”

                 Future- Bass didn’t respond. He was busy looking up at something that Bass couldn’t see. He closed his eyes and smiled. When he opened them again, they were red and tears spilled out down his cheeks. “They’re finally letting me go,” he whispered. Already he was starting to fade away. “Thank you…”

                His last words echoed into the room as he disappeared. In reality, Bass felt like it should be the other way around—he should be thanking this mysterious version of himself that would never come to be. There was so much he wanted to say, but he’d never gotten the chance.

                The apparition of what may have been had saved his life that night. He’d been through months of lonely hell since, but he finally had something good to hold on to. He blinks back a few tears of his now and headed back to bed, pulling the woman that waited for him close.

                “Where did you go?” Charlie murmured in her sleep.

                “Storm’s rolling in. I had to go shut up the house,” he told her as he pressed a kiss to the back of her neck.

                Charlie just sighed in contentment as she fell back to sleep, warm and comfortable. A peaceful quiet filled the room. The only sound that could be heard was the distant rumbling outside as Bass slowly drifted off to join her.

 

 


	12. All Stories Come To An End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue of sorts...

**The bond that links your true family is not one of blood,**

**but of respect and joy in each other’s life.**

**Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof.**

_Over the course of the next few weeks, most of the memories that the ghost of himself had shared slowly start to fade. Eventually, Bass will forget all about the Charlie that never was and the desperation that her death had caused. All of that pain slowly will ebb until it is gone altogether._

_When all is said and done, he will remember seeing what he would have become, but it will become more abstract in his mind. After all, that Monroe never existed so how could he really have been there. The memory of that night softens and he will later remember that he just woke up and realized that he’d lost his damn mind and needed to get away while he still could._

_When he’s asked how he knew about Randall Flynn and the Patriots and how he came across a fairly long list of those that were helping them, he won’t have a concrete answer. Instead he makes it up—he came across some correspondences regarding the Patriots and put two and two together. The only person that ever asks him about it will be Miles, and he’ll accept the explanation readily enough. What matters is that Bass was right, and they managed to put a stop to them before they became a problem._

_Bass knows that there’s a location in Colorado where the power can be turned back on. He doesn’t remember how he knows, or where it is, but he will take what he does know to his grave. Because Randall is dead and the Patriots have been defeated, Rachel Matheson is the only other person that knows about it, and for some reason, Bass knows that she won’t be telling anyone either._

_By the first day of winter, Miles has moved into his new home and is only an hour walk away. Charlie goes often to see her brother and her uncle. Danny reciprocates often as well. He and Bass get along as well as anyone could expect. Bass never asks for forgiveness and Danny never offers it. They just make do because of Charlie._

_Also because of Charlie, Bass slowly mends fences with Miles. It takes a very long time, a handful of fist fights and a lot of whiskey to get there, and things will never be as they once were, but eventually they find some peace._

_Miles eventually realizes that Nora is the one he wants and it takes him months of begging to get her to come. Eventually, he does win her over and she joins their ramshackle little family and community. Rachel and Aaron Pittman will remain in Philly and the Republic will prosper._

_Over time, while the memories of the things that Bass had done as General Monroe do not fade, the anger and hatred that most people feel for him does. It’s easier for people to forget the fear and starving when now they have enough to eat and have their rights back._

_It hasn’t hurt that Jeremy had published Bass’ letter to Miles—with all references to the Patriots redacted, of course. It is common knowledge that the founder of the Monroe Republic realized that for the good of the Republic and all of those living within it, he had to step down and let someone else rule._

_There will come a time where he no longer fears discovery, however he will never truly feel comfortable in town. Although he no longer relies on his neighbors to conduct his business for him, Bass will continue to look after them over the years._

_When the old man dies, he makes it a point to make sure his wife is taken care of. She becomes a surrogate grandmother to their children—something they would otherwise have never had, as Rachel has never accepted the relationship between her daughter and the Monster of Independence Hall (as some had come to call him behind his back, he’d ruefully found out one day)._

_Despite the past and everything he’d done before he’d found his sanity and saved his soul, Bass finally has the life he’d always wanted. He has family and a real home. He has a growing business remaking pre-blackout furniture (and even making a few new pieces of his own), something that he’s discovered he’s both good at and enjoys. He has a few people to have a drink with every now and again—Miles and occasionally, his much younger brother-in-law._

_He indeed has gotten the girl and together they actually live happily ever after…_

_The End…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone that has actually taken the time to read this trifle of a work. Indeed, it is out of character, campy, uses cheap gimmicks and the literary equivalent of bottom barrel special effects. Regardless, it was stuck in my head and had to go somewhere. Merry Christmas everybody!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you in advance for anyone who has taken the time to comment and review this work (especially if I owe you feedback!!). I'll eventually put it up on ffnet but today is not the day.


End file.
